


Like real people do

by yarost



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Everybody Lives, Fuck Canon, I Don't Even Know, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Linear Narrative, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarost/pseuds/yarost
Summary: In another universe, in a different outcome, Chirrut and Baze live long enough to have children.





	

 

There's still sand on his hair, and he tastes salt on his mouth. He counts all the bones that will ache tomorrow and smiles at the prospect, at the small wonder of still having bones to ache and days to live. He inevitably believes in the Force in that moment, how could he not, they are alive, they've survived. 

Bodhi nurses a cut on his forehead and, sitting side by side, Jyn and Cassian are quiet, trying to make sense of what transpired between them. 

Chirrut's breathing is steady, and the blood is already drying up on his skin, coming off like coal. He's gonna have a field day when he wakes up, won't he?

_I told you, Baze. I told you to trust the force._

Chirrut is twenty-five when they first meet, and he changes very little in the years - the best of Baze's life - that follow. 

The girls, omegas and betas, giggle when he bathes, describing what they see to Chirrut. A man as marred as he is handsome.

“What did they tell you,” Baze asks, after a few days, when he’s done with skirting around Chirrut and actually started talking to him, “about how I look?”

“Not enough to make me see,” Chirrut answers, with a small smile “enough to make me curious. May I?”

He lets Chirrut’s hands over his face, gently, watching carefully the Omega’s expression as he traces the same marks made by many suns, a bloody life, a short childhood.

 

Chirrut is a reminder: _there are gentler things in this universe._  

 

Baze, surprisingly, is good with children. 

Something in his silence that’s more calming than threatening. A flock of six year olds, looking at him with curiosity. He resists for a while, trying to ignore their waiting little faces, but eventually gives in, grabbing the kids under the armpits and lifting them into the air, making sounds with his mouth like a starship. The children squeal with joy and, later, Chirrut will mock him with tenderness:

“I’ve always knew you were soft.”

To which Baze responds:

“I’m spending too much time with you.”

 

The Empire took many things but not the nonchalant way its subjects deal with their secondary gender. Baze is an alpha, Chirrut is an omega. Big deal, really. Baze would have followed him anyway, being anything. A dog on his path, or a fish in a bowl shared with another fish. The universe reduced to two.

Chirrut is an omega and, one day, casually, he says:

“My heat will begin soon.”

They are sharing the chill of the evening, sitting upon ruins, Chirrut’s head against Baze’s chest.

“That’s an invitation if you couldn’t tell.”

Chirrut says, when Baze’s silence stretches too long. The assassin grunts and wonders if the growing warmth of his skin can be felt by Chirrut. He asks:

“It’s gonna be your first?”

“With an alpha, yes.”

He learned it the hard way, the _only_ way, that things don’t come easy, especially if he wants them. He’s earned what he has by bleeding and hurting. Gentleness had seldom embraced his limbs. But here he is with the thing he wants the most in years, yearning in a way that’s just a little shy from a marriage proposition. He doesn’t ask himself if he deserves it – he knows he doesn’t – but how can he make it last. The mating, but also the present, the weight of Chirrut’s head against his chest, the quietness, the universe reduced to two.

 

He remembers the moment when he thought Chirrut was dead and he hates it, hates its vivid colours, its dread that still wakes him up some nights, robbing the room of air and his body of warmth. If the fate-maker thought he needed a lesson, he needed to learn how to _truly_ appreciate Chirrut, it was mistaken. Baze knows how lucky he is. And Chirrut is a whole galaxy of gold to serve such vain purpose.

Breathing comes back. The night is fresh in this place of many trees. He doesn’t smell the desert anymore and he doesn’t miss it. Chirrut sleeps gently by his side.

Baze has no knack for poetry, never did, but he’d like to be able to describe the moonlight bathed paleness of Chirrut’s back, the firm lines of his muscles, even the places where things harsher than flesh marred his skin. Chirrut is agile, solid but lean, flexible like the string of a bow. Baze spoons him and Chirrut hums appreciatively, not entirely awake.

What he remembers next is the relief – the finding of a pulse. Face buried on Chirrut’s neck now, scenting a long-missed smell. Chirrut on the beach, bloody but alive. _Thank you,_ he thinks, Thank you.

  

The Resistance grants them the finest loot Baze has ever received. A small cottage surrounded by tall trees, painted a fading colour between white and blue like Chirrut’s eyes. The planet is a whole colony of rebels, and their neighbours are all familiar faces. They meet each other, between missions and assignments, Bodhi and Andor and Jyn and a recently repaired K-2SO, and the smiles come easier nowadays. The fight goes on.

He likes the place. He likes how easy it is to imagine it growing old with them, this house where the floor is cool enough for Chirrut to walk barefoot, where they share a bed and a privacy they lacked for years of wandering from place to place, from cell to cell, from ruin to ruin.

They eat breakfast and lunch with the other members of the resistance but, in the evenings, Chirrut cooks rice and Baze fries fish, and they drink blue milk or the occasional beer.

(He pictures, too, with an eagerness that should frighten him, the viable fruit of the following years, the tap-tapping of children’s feet, the voices of kids who will look like him and Chirrut, the forbidden tenderness of a life he never thought as his own.)

 

When it starts, he licks a trail of what tastes like honey from the warmth of Chirrut’s thighs. They fall open, and Chirrut exhales the first of all moans, a trembling sound, sweet like his slick.

He doesn’t know, but he wants to, to see what Chirrut sees with open, blind eyes, as Baze handles his body with the familiarity of the years. To make sure he knows what stars taste like.

“Baze,” Chirrut arches, a hand tangled with the Alpha’s hair, tightening its grip according to the movements of Baze’s fingers inside him “Baze, enough. That’s enough, I need you. Fuck me.”

He’s so beautiful, he has no idea. Dozens of heats have passed since that first one, and still the vision of Chirrut breathlessly begging for his knot is enough to make Baze believe in a higher luck, a higher gift, be it the force or not.

His fingers produce a wet, pornography sound as he pulls them out of the Omega’s hole. Chirrut whines, impatiently, and seeks Baze’s mouth as their bodies meet again. They kiss, sloppy and messy, as Baze finally thrusts inside, buried to the hilt inside Chirrut’s heat. He kisses Chirrut’s chin, his neck, the mating mark on the curve of his shoulder.

And isn’t it different now, that he has permission to impregnate? It’s an old, erotic thought, a common fantasy for an Alpha, and Baze is not unafflicted by it: to have his seed take root in this beloved flesh. Chirrut moans beautifully, his flexible legs held impossibly agape; inside him, Baze’s knot swells.

 

So now –

_Now._

He’s not any less scared. But here they are, two of them. A total of twenty perfect toes.

Chirrut smiles a tired smile and knows his husband does too, as if his fascination, his pure happiness is something palpable through the force.

The babies – two girls – didn’t open their eyes yet. Nor did their parents choose their names. You see, they didn’t think they would make it this far. But they have.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I'm filthy, I love them a lot.


End file.
